


Settle Down

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom!Sam, Cockwarming, M/M, Spoilers through 10X04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s resolution that they’re not ready for this breaks long before Dean slides his sweat pants off. Then again, the walls inside his head are pretty flimsy these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settle Down

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** For [](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepypercy**](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/) who made me unable to think about anything the idea of Sam brushing his teeth because he’d spent the whole night with Dean’s cock in his mouth, and [](http://big-heart-june.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://big-heart-june.livejournal.com/)**big_heart_june** for the extra picture and cheerleading inspiration. Uhm. Somehow the Sam-angst-to-porn ratio wound up getting flipped. Apologies, girls. Blame the muse.

“Dean, settle down.”

His brother is pacing again, practically vibrating with unspent energy. Like a meth addict, right after shooting up. It can’t be healthy. Not for a human, anyway, of which Dean has recently re-joined the ranks.

“We should be hunting,” Dean argues. It’s not the first time he’s made that statement this hour and Sam would bet the entire library that Bobby left him it won’t be the last, either. “Saving people.”

Sam ignores his brother, pretending to fiddle with his computer. It’s odd not using it for cases or research, but they’re supposed to be relaxing, getting Dean grounded in humanity before they risk killing again. Sam’s worried that shooting first, as Dean is prone to do, will trigger the Mark of Cain to tighten its grip on his brother’s brain. Remind Dean of his need to kill; urge him to fulfil the Mark’s sacrilegious bond. The ancient bleached jaw bone of a blade was born out of fratricide. A fact that Sam isn’t likely to forget any time soon. Not after Dean tried to bash his head in with a hammer.

Dean _likes_ the disease, he doesn’t want his humanity back—a voice whispers inside Sam’s head. It’s not his own. Gadreel’s, Lucifer’s, Meg’s maybe. But not Sam’s. He trusts his brother. Even if Dean’s arm still has the letter _F_ carved into it.

He pushes down the urge to ask Dean if he’d taken up torturing during his stint as a creature of the underworld. The question slides back into Sam’s mouth as quickly as it almost tumbles out. He already knows, already doesn’t like the answer. There’s no point. Moot in every direction.

The bedsprings creak as Dean flops dramatically onto the bed, invading every bit of Sam’s personal space like they’re teenagers again, running his hand up the inseam of Sam’s pants.

“I’m busy,” he says, swatting Dean’s hand away.

If his dick could revolt, Sam’s pretty sure that his would be trying to leave his body for another owner, because no one’s ever made Sam feel so _whole_ , or come so hard as when Dean’s cock is in him. And it’s not that he doesn’t love Dean. Of course he does. More than anything in this godforsaken world. That’s beyond stupid to even suggest he doesn’t. It’s just—a few twists of Dean’s soul into a pretzel and his brother had done everything possible to get as far away from him. Like he knew that abandonment would inflict the most pain. It shouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t his brother, it was a demon.

It does anyways.

Sam can still hear, still feel the swing of the hammer almost pinning his head to the wall. He wakes up at night, bad dreams reminding him of the indent his knife made against Dean’s throat. Not that he would have killed his brother. Strictly speaking, demons don’t have functioning cardiac systems, but it’s the thought, the terror that counts.

So yeah. His dick might be onboard. But his brain hasn’t quite caught up.

“C’mon, Sammy. Please?”

“Dean…” He draws the word out, throwing his reservations into a single syllable.

His brother’s hand moves back to his body, this time palming his cock, and Sam can’t help when his hips thrust up. He can’t even remember the last time they fucked around. Before the trials perhaps? Maybe when Dean had put on the hell-hound glasses? Either way, it’s fuzzy.

“Atta boy, just like old times. I got you.”

Yeah. Just like old times. Except this time it’s not Sam begging, climbing into his lap and whispering words of reassurance. _It’s alright. They’re not fucked-up._

This time it’s Dean.

Sam’s resolution that they’re not ready for this yet breaks long before Dean slides his sweat pants off his body. Then again, the walls inside his head are pretty flimsy these days. And yeah, when Dean wraps his hot, sweaty palm around his dick, Sam’s downright cursing his brain for thinking they needed time away from sex.

Somehow the memory of Dean’s soft tongue, the way he swallows, throat fluttering around Sam’s cock had gotten lost. Misfiled; perhaps when Gadreel and Crowley had fought through his synapses. Probably other memories have gone by the wayside as well, neurons lost as a byproduct of a lifetime full of traumatic brain injuries.

“Fuck, Dean,” he says as his brother takes down every inch of his cock until his chin is gently pressing into Sam’s sac, forcing his balls to separate, before coming back up for air.

“Yeah, is it good?” Dean asks.

Despite the hundreds, possibly thousands of times that Dean’s sucked his cock, he’s never convinced Sam’s telling the truth.

“The best,” he replies, running his hand through Dean’s hair. It’s short again. He’d asked Sam to take a pair of clippers to it, after he’d been cured. As if, by the way that Sampson had lost his strength, Dean would shed his sin.

So far, it seems to have worked.

“You wanna?” Dean asks sitting back on his heels. Looking vulnerable, like he’s worried that Sam’s going to turn him down.

Sam answers by pulling on his brother’s shirt until he’s covering as much as Sam’s skin as possible, biting at every part of Dean he can get his teeth on. Creating physical proof. Sam’s own red mark on his brother’s alabaster skin.

A reminder to Hell, to Cain that Dean’s his. _Dean’s his_ , and he’s not letting go. Not before, not now, not ever.

Fingers grip his chin, stilling his teeth, and then Dean’s lips are pressed against his, already full with blood, and obscenely wet. Sam attacks them with the same ferocity and attention he’d devoted to the rest of his brother’s body, all the while rubbing his dick against Dean’s flexed thigh.

Just when Sam thinks he’s going to come—all over Dean’s jeans—his brother pulls away with a smile. Sam’s brain tries to catch up with the lack of stimulation, and for a split second, he sees Dean’s eyes flash black.

He bolts to his elbows, adrenaline pumping twice as hard, but then Dean’s hands are on him, slow and soothing. Reminding him that reality is fractal-based. Who Sam and Dean were, who they _are_ , everything that happens _to them_ will keep on repeating an reflecting, as long as they’re alive. And one of their truths is that Dean will be there for him. Always. Within every version, every alternate reality that they exist.

“Hold on, big boy, we’re almost there,” Dean says as he unbuttons, unbuckles, and pushes down his jeans. He doesn’t bother to take them off, for which Sam is grateful. Instead he digs into his pocket and pulls out a small thing of lube which he warms up before rubbing into Sam’s ass. For all of his brother’s macho attitude, he’s never been anything but detail-oriented to Sam’s pleasure during sex.

Still, Sam’s getting older and his back revolts against the hard bed Dean’s pushing him into and he wonders if Dean’s memory foam still remembers them. If it holds every imprint of Sam’s ass; each time unique to the placement of Dean’s hands on his legs, the depths of his thrusts.

He doesn’t close his eyes, instead he leans up to catch Dean’s upper lip as his brother rocks into his body. Filling him up from the inside out. Making him remember why it’s Sam and Dean Winchester against the world. Bringing to the forefront of his mind that he did the right thing, sticking his brother with needles. Pumping someone else’s blood into his brother’s body. Making both of them whole again.

The slap of his cock against his thigh turns out to be enough to push him over the edge, his moan of ‘Dean’ swallowed up by his brother’s mouth. By the time that his cock is wilting, semen sliding a cool trail down his leg, Sam’s relaxed against the bed. Letting his brother work himself up, each jab of his hips faster and more furious until he stills, sweat dripping onto Sam’s chest before collapsing like he’s undergone an exorcism.

Sam reminds him with a shake that he should pull out before his dick gets sore, and although he grumbles, Dean agrees. Eventually. Sam traces warding sigils and devils traps across Dean’s back until he stumbles towards the bathroom in search of warm washcloths.

The wet towel hits Sam in the face.

“Really?” he asks, even though he’s pleased. The fact that Dean hasn’t buckled up and stomped out, the fact that _he_ hasn’t buckled up and stomped out makes this better than a collection of other nights. They’re both John Winchester’s sons; they can’t help it. Guilt-ridden hate-sex and door-slamming runs in their blood. Patterns within patterns.

“Suck it, little brother,” Dean says as he climbs back into bed, throwing their used towels on the floor.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks, and Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

Now that his shoulder’s back to normal it’s something he can do. It’s something he loves to do, if he’s being honest.

Dean fluffs up the pillow underneath his head and turns out the bedside lamp, already at the end of its wattage to begin with.

It’s never been a problem, slipping between Dean’s bowed legs, but his brother spreads them anyways, making sure that Sam has enough room.

Sam’s had grace in his body. Literal, ethereal power coursing through his veins—but that doesn’t compare to the holy experience that is placing Dean’s cock in his mouth. Falling asleep with the heady taste of his brother on his tongue, finger tips sliding through Sam’s hair, flooding him so much oxytocin that everything that’s come before, every fight they’ve had, every poor decision they’ve made falls by the wayside.

\--

Dean doesn’t sleep long. Maybe four hours on a good night. Tonight, it might be a little more, but not by much. Five perhaps? It’s probably PTSD, but Dean would mostly likely punch Sam in the face if he suggested it, and another blow to the head is exactly what Sam _doesn’t_ need.

Fingers slide into Sam’s mouth, and he groans when Dean removes his dick, even though now that he’s semi-awake, his neck is hurting something fierce.

“Alright, Sam,” Dean says, but when he doesn’t move, Dean hauls him up the bed, massaging his shoulders until they release the tension they’ve accumulated. He presses a kiss to Sam’s neck, and a hushed “thank you” before he slips out the door. Five years later and Sam’s still missing the metallic-clink of Dean’s necklace against his spine. He lets it go in favor of inhaling what’s left of Dean on the starched pillowcase.

\--

The sun’s already out when Sam wakes up, hours after Dean had left their farm-house themed motel room. He watches through the curtain as Dean gets dirty under the hood of the Impala, debating whether or not the lot is empty enough to convince Dean that he should let Sam blow him against the car. Unfortunately, not only is it the Midwest, but Sam’s breath also smells like hell—a combination of bacteria build up and Dean’s cock—so he takes his purple toothbrush to his mouth before pulling on his track pants. He leaves on the stretched-out shirt that never managed to get taken off last night.

He opens the door (why the hell anyone would put 200 on a ground level room is anyone’s best guess), and squints.

“Hey,” Dean says. He’s downright cheery, and Sam knows that could only be one thing. They’re not heading back to the bunker because Dean’s found a case.

“Hey,” he parrots back before returning to fucking the toothbrush into his mouth with a little more purpose.

“I found us a case,” Dean states, before he notices what Sam is doing. “Are you trying to distract me?”

Sam spits his toothpaste on the ground. “Is it working?”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean says before pushing Sam back into their motel room. “We still got two hours ‘till check-out. I think that missing drama-school teacher can wait.”  



End file.
